#he looks at him in awe at everything's he does

[velvetcrimsonkisses]

Red Ropes- Choso Kamo

Note: sub!choso tied up and being pathetic. Hope y'all like it's been a bit. I miss yall <3

The red ropes cinched tightly around Choso's toned torso. With every deep breath, his muscles dared to bulge out of their confinements. The veins from his strong arms and biceps flex with any subtle movement he does. Soft whimpers escape his plump lips, red and flushed from biting on them. His cheeks match along with them as he looks up at you. 

“Ha… ah,” He exhales deeply.

“Awe, what’s the matter?” You ask, as you slowly circle around him, your fingers lightly trail around the diameter of his waist. You admire how his pale skin is littered with beautiful splotches of deep red and rich purple. Chills run down his spine as he feels your fingertips brush against his skin. Once you made it in front of him again, you trail your fingers from his abdomen and up to his chin. You grip his chin and pull it up so his gaze lands on you.

“Choso,” his name falling so sweetly out of your mouth, forces him to look at your lips. His mind tries to imagine them on any part of his body that makes him ache.

“Should I stop? You’re not answering me.” You lean in.

“N-no,” His voice is hoarse and weak. Desperate, lust-blown eyes flitting between your mouth and eyes.

“Please don’t stop.” The last word drops into a soft whine, and he leans in to try and meet you halfway when you pull back.

He looks like he wants to cry and that's just what you planned. You push him lightly, so his back is flat against the chair. You take a good look at the pathetic man in front of you, no shame to be found. He indulged in being treated like this with the silent promise that you’d praise him afterward. Your gaze falls low to the prominent tent strained against his tight boxers. The fabric clung to every thick inch of his throbbing cock. 

You lean in closer, your lips brushing against his ear as you speak softly, "Look at you, so hard and aching and completely at my mercy.” Your fingernails trail down his chest, as you settle down on his lap. The heat of his body radiates through the thin fabric of your panties, making you hyper-aware of what you’re doing to him. 

“Tell me how much you need it, how badly you need me…” you voice a sinful purr against his ear. “How desperately does your cock want to be inside me?” you punctuated each word by rolling your hips, grinding against the rigid tent straining his boxers. 

Choso's eyes fluttered shut, his breath hitched as he lost himself in the sweet sensation. “So bad,” his voice rasped, strained and thick, full of desire. “I want to be inside you so bad.” 

His whines are like music to your ears. His hips roll up to meet your grinding, seeking more and more. You could feel him fighting for his life against the ropes. His fingers clenching, knuckles turning white as he fought the urge to grab and flip you over, changing your positions but, Choso knew better than to defy your wishes. 

“Beg for it,” honeyed words fall from your lips and slip into his ears. Your nails dig a little deeper into his biceps and squeeze, that pain mixed with the pleasure he knew he was about to receive makes all the better. “Beg for my pussy Cho…” 

You lean back slightly allowing your hand to come up and squeeze his neck, with just enough pressure to make him give in to you. His head tilts back and you could almost cum from just the look he gives you. His eyes bore into you, dark, intense, and all-consuming. His lips parted slightly as he began to speak again, “Please, I’ll fuck you with everything I have…” Choso’s voice dropped to a rough and desperate rasp. His words spilled out in the filthiest manner. “Please, please give me what I need.

You could feel him on the last threads of his resistance, he wanted you and needed you soon. You tighten your grip around his jaw before pressing a soft kiss on his cheek. “Good boy,” you purred, your voice full of sinful lust. “Such a good boy, begging all pretty for me…” 

With that, your hand finally reaches down to set him free. His throbbing cock sprang free from his boxers, slapping against his abdomen. You wrap your hand around his pulsing shaft, feeling it jerk and twitch in your grip. 

Choso let out a strangled moan, his hips bucking up into your touch, wanting more of that succulent feeling. “Thank you, fuck… thank you so much.” He gasps, his voice choking on the words. 

You could see the desperation in his eyes, the way they glazed over with pure submission as you stroked his aching cock. His whole body goes limp beneath you, surrendering to all your whims. He was completely and utterly yours. 

“Please let me feel your pussy, I promise I’ll be good. I’ll do anything for you.” Choso begs, his words spilling out in a quick and nervous tumble. You could feel the need radiating off his body, and you finally decide to give him what he desperately wants. 

You adjust your hips and with one swift motion you move your panties to the side, your dripping sex finally exposed to the hungry eyes before you. You grip his hair, forcing his head slightly back, as you finally undo the red ropes that restrained him. 

His hands like clockwork fall to your waist as he buries his head in the crook of your neck. “Can I please fuck you now, please…” He mumbles into your skin, before looking up at you with those brown pleading eyes. 

And you could never tell him no… 

[qqueenofhades]

been seeing some responses to the many many lawsuits and other actions taken against trumpet and munkfruit that fall along the lines of "this isn't enough, it's already too late, you can't fight fascism with the law, we're all gonna die." i understand the fear, truly, but i'm curious as to your thoughts on it, as to me it seems like this sort of behavior/posting doesn't do much beyond embolden the narrative that everyone actually likes these bastards and they're too powerful to be stopped.

Welp. This is the kind of question that requires me to write a long and complex sociopolitical/critical/historical/Discourse-esque analysis that will take a while and which I am trying to do only selectively, but I'm at home on Saturday morning, I don't have anything else to do right now, and it does present me an opportunity to address some things I've been thinking about. So. We'll give it a shot.

The first thing that has struck me is that in a few short weeks, we're getting a sharp empirical disproving of two common online-leftist fallacies: one, the old "both parties are exactly the same" chestnut, and two, "the only resistance that matters is Violent Glorious Revolution" (which somehow and conveniently never happens). We had months and months of "Biden is just as bad as Trump!!!" being spread as gospel truth in online-leftist circles, and then when Harris took over, it switched just as seamlessly into "Harris is just as bad as [or even worse than] Trump!" Now, as I have said before, there were plenty of legitimate criticisms to make of Biden, particularly the Gaza policy (upon which Harris notably differed). But it's quite telling that the keyboard warriors who spent all of last year howling for The Righteous Punishment of Biden-Harris (regardless that the obvious ancillary consequence was letting Trump come to power) have either disappeared completely when it comes to dealing with the results of that rhetoric, or have switched to "everything is doomed so I guess we shouldn't bother anyway." Like. Trump is now proposing to fully ethnically cleanse Gaza and either blithely hand it over to Israel or build Jared Kushner Beachfront Resort Disneyworld, and what do we hear in protest? For the most part, crickets. These are not serious people. Their opposition is not morally consistent, and it only depends on how they can make themselves look good. I thought that Trump was somehow supposed to be magically better than Biden particularly on the Gaza issue, and that was why it was worth letting him get elected? Or something? Something!?!

I'm curious as to whether those people still legitimately think that Harris would have spent her first few weeks in office dismantling USAID, signing weekly anti-trans executive orders, unleashing ICE across the country and terrorizing immigrant communities, putting the Project 2025 guy in charge of the Office of Management and Budget, letting Elon Musk run rampant with Treasury data, nominating the likes of RFK Jr. and Tulsi Gabbard to Cabinet posts, trying to freeze all federal funding, stripping DEI initiatives, dismantle the Department of Education -- etc. etc. The thing is, as ghoulish as it is, none of this is a surprise, because it is literally what Trump and his people spent the entire presidential campaign loudly, openly, and repeatedly promising to do. However awful they were and are, they were not remotely secret about their intentions. That information was out in the open every time they opened their mouths. But too many people didn't pay attention, rationalized it away, decided that "he won't actually do that" (despite the fact that he launched a literal violent coup attempt on the Capitol the last time he was in office), or just made up their minds that Trump Will Reduce Grocery Prices and refused to listen to any information that countered that view. What do we get now? Trump laughing off the grocery-prices issue and insisting that it's "not a priority" and Musk managing to claim that the real problem is government spending, not corporate greed. Again, this was completely predictable, because y'all got willingly suckered. It was not hard to see it coming.

That said: if the Glorious Online Leftist Revolution is still coming, and by some lights we might now legitimately need it, where the fuck is it? Are they still out there banging the drum against Trump and his "let's ethnically cleanse Gaza" policy and anything else that they insisted, they swore up and down, was functionally equivalent or possibly even marginally better than Biden-Harris getting another term? No. They're either dead silent, offering weak excuses, or completely giving into "we're doomed there's no point fighting back through weak shitlib institutions that are obviously terrible and will fail" blubbering that makes no fucking sense. One, because they move the goalposts so constantly that there's not even any attempt to reckon with the last effects of their damaging bullshit, and two? As I said, where's the fucking Revolution magically coming to save us and install a perfect leftist utopia (which is never how revolutions have ever worked) and sweep away Government Tyranny? Is that only for when a Democrat is in office and you can have confidence that the government is not going to come after you in the middle of the night for talking about it? Now that there's an actual fascist in power, it's somehow too hard to resist at all, even in small, institutional, and everyday ways that are often far more effective at practically confounding the bad stuff instead of empty and useless online echo chambers, so guess we should all just give up??!

Fuck. That.

This is also why we have to talk about the catastrophic lack of information literacy and critical thinking skills in young leftist spaces. A good example is the recent migration of TikTok users to the Chinese app RedNote. It was sweet for a little while as there was cultural exchange and friendship and memes. But then, predictably, it dove hard into "ah, once again The Evil US Government Has Lied To Us and there are no problems at all in China!" I have seen posts float by on my dash that unironically claim this is the case and China is truly great and Americans should want to move there and clearly all that business about authoritarian control and mass repression was just a ruse by, again, The Evil US Government. If you are so utterly devoid of basic information literacy and research abilities that your standard of proof for "is the Chinese government repressively authoritarian and totalitarian" is "a random Chinese person on an app in a country where the Internet is viciously controlled and voicing the slightest criticism can make you disappear told me that it isn't," then for Christ's fucking sake, you need help. For one, it wasn't just the US government saying this. It was, y'know, Chinese dissidents, the entire nation of Taiwan, historians, academics, researchers, the Uyghur Muslims of Xinjiang, etc etc. If your only standard for believing or supporting anything is "the opposite of what the US government thinks," then you are perfect targets for authoritarianism. Hey, a person living under an authoritarian regime who will punish them if they speak out against it told me everything was fine! Clearly there's nothing to worry about and we should want it here in America!

Come on. Come on.

This is also the case because uneducated young leftists like to unironically label themselves "communists" or "Marxist-Leninists" as if it's cool and hip and has never been involved in anything problematic in all of history, so anything that calls itself that must be supported. Shoutout to the idiot in my notes recently who reblogged a several-year-old post just to shout at me about how historical communists NEVER worked with or collaborated with fascists, because something something The Communists Were The Pure Shining Good Guys! (Uh, nobody tell them about the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact.) Clearly, the Chinese Communist Party is good and beneficial, end of story, no more criticism or caution needed! Obviously, yes, official American policy toward China has often been driven by basic Sinophobia, and the determination that nobody can change American hegemony or unipolarity or its ability to call the shots how it pleases. But if that is the literally only criteria you're using, then yeah. If you're so unaware that "the Chinese people are ordinary human beings" and "the Chinese government is repressive and authoritarian" are statements that can and in fact do coexist, then apparently you've missed the situation you're in right now, where "the American people are ordinary human beings" and "the American government is repressive and authoritarian" is also the case. Because online leftism is essentially devoid of a consistent moral principle and will just blithely switch up to support Bad Things as long as they're being done by governments with the correct ideological label, here we are.

Anyway. This is getting long, but the main takeaway is that the "all resistance against Trump is doomed and I guess we just gotta die :(" line is now, somehow, often coming from the same people who were constantly yelling that the only hope was a Glorious Revolution against Biden-Harris, and it is somehow even stupider. So you'll trumpet about Gloriously Overthrowing The Government all the day long as long as a Democrat is in office, but the instant a Republican gets in there instead and starts acting like an actual fascist, welp, time to just shut up and accept our doom and not even bother to struggle? Please tell me how any of that makes sense. Especially when actively confounding the Trump/Musk Axis of Evil is already working. There is also the fact that the establishment-media types are supporting this narrative for reasons of their own; witness the fact that the entire US corporate media is owned by oligarchs who hastened to bend the knee and pledge fealty to Trump 2.0. They obviously also have a reason for inculcating hopelessness in you, and that the only recourse is to shut up, accept it, and let them continue to rob you blind. Because American democracy will never matter as much as money, power, and control for the Billionaire Bros.

The point is: this is a bad-faith narrative on all sides. Whether it's coming from the online leftists in their latest head-spinningly hypocritical volte-face, the oligarch-owned corporate media that wants to feed you constant Bad News to keep you clicking and worried and distracted and unable to resist, the Trumpist power that wants people to quit making this pesky stink about all their authoritarian fascist adventures, or anyone else. There is nobody who has your best interests at heart if they are telling you that everything is doomed and the only thing to do is lie down and take it. There is no logical reason you should listen to them. Go forth and keep resisting, in whatever way presents itself. Those cumulative small actions are far more effective than any Splendid Revolution that never, ever materializes, while the people who preach it just sit back and whine about how things are so bad now so clearly they couldn't. Shut up.

It is always important. It always matters. It will make a difference.

Courage, etc.

[meadowfics]

postpartum

husband!babyfather!kang dae-ho x f!wife!mom!reader

in a world where you did get to have your family, unlike what happened here

warnings: mentions of normal post-pregnancy stuff like breastmilk pumping. postpartum depression. dae-ho being ALIVE in this one and being the best husband to you and father to your babies <3

heavily requested in my inbox after what I posted yesterday LMAO

the weight of it all is suffocating.

you sit on the couch, your body sinking into the cushions as exhaustion drapes over you like a heavy, unshakable blanket. 

in your arms, tiny and delicate, byeol drinks from her bottle, her little fingers curling and uncurling against your chest, her slow, steady suckling the only sound anchoring you in the moment.

the babies tiny body is warm against you, her breaths soft, her features too much like dae-ho’s that it makes your heart ache.

normally, you would be lost in adoration, in awe of this little life you brought into the world. you would trace her perfect cheeks with your fingers, marvel at the way her lashes flutter as she drinks, kiss the soft long hair she inherited from her father. 

today, you are simply trying to hold yourself together.

your body is sore, aching from the endless cycle of feeding, pumping, and barely sleeping. your mind feels foggy, tangled with thoughts you don’t want to have, emotions you don’t want to feel. 

you love your daughters, you love dae-ho, you love your family. you would never trade this for anything. 

however, the love isn’t enough to make the heaviness go away.

across the room, seo-ah plays on the floor, a bright burst of energy that fills every corner of the house. she chatters to her stuffed animals, her high-pitched giggles filling the space, making everything feel alive in a way that you cannot.

“appa! look! teddy is dancing!” 

she exclaims, lifting her stuffed bear into the air, twirling it in circles.

dae-ho, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her, gasps in exaggerated excitement. 

“wahhh! so cool, teddy is so talented!”

seo-ah beams at the praise, her eyes crinkling as she twirls again, her joy infectious, her laughter like sunshine.

normally, that sound would lift you. 

normally, watching dae-ho be the incredible father that he is would warm your heart, remind you that you are not alone in this, that you have him.

today, it only makes the exhaustion worse.

dae-ho’s gaze flickers toward you, sharp and observant, even as he stays engaged with seo-ah’s game. 

he doesn’t miss the tension in your shoulders, the blankness in your eyes, the way your responses are slower, quieter than usual.

he gets up, making his way to you, crouching in front of the couch so that he’s level with you. 

“baby,” he murmurs, his voice soft, careful. 

“are you okay?”

you manage a small smile. 

“yeah, just tired.”

the marine’s warm, calloused hands settle on your knees, thumbs rubbing slow, comforting circles. 

“do you want me to take byeol for a bit? you’ve been holding her all day.”

you shake your head, your arms instinctively tightening around byeol’s small frame. 

“no, i got it.”

dae-ho doesn’t push. he never does. 

he simply nods, but the concern lingers in his eyes.

after twenty minutes, when byeol finishes her bottle, you sigh, shifting in your seat. 

“love, can you do their bedtime routine tonight? i feel… gross. i just wanna shower.”

dae-ho’s expression softens instantly, and without hesitation, he leans forward to press a gentle kiss to your temple before carefully lifting mini byeol from your arms. 

“of course, baby. take your time, okay?”

he doesn’t say it to make you feel better. he means it. 

every time, every single time, he is happy to take care of his girls. 

he never complains, never hesitates. 

he loves them, loves you.

as he walks away, bouncing byeol gently in his arms, calling for seo-ah in that affectionate tone he always uses, you make your way to the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you.

unfortunately, the moment you step into the shower, the relief you so desperately crave does not come.

the warm water cascades down your skin, but it does nothing to ease the exhaustion weighing down on you. 

the pressure is strong, firm against your sore muscles, but you still feel tense, wound so tightly that no amount of heat can unravel you.

you let your head drop forward, resting your forehead against the cool tiles of the shower wall. your arms hang limply at your sides, the steam rising around you in thick waves. 

for a moment, you try to breathe…slow, deep, steady. but it doesn’t help. nothing does.

your body doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

your breasts ache, swollen and sore from pumping, tender in a way that makes you wince when the water hits them. your stomach, still soft and a little stretched from carrying byeol, stirs something sharp and cruel inside you, something that whispers that you’ll never look or feel the same again. 

honestly, you cannot recall if you felt like this after having seo-ah.

you press your palm against yourself, fingers tracing over the faint marks left behind from your pregnancy, and you don’t know whether you love them or hate them.

a lump forms in your throat as your gaze flickers downward. 

your thighs, your waist, the curve of your hips—none of it looks the way it used to. 

you know, logically, that your body is healing, that you just brought a life into this world. 

sometimes logic doesn’t quiet the thoughts that get at you, that tell you you are different now in a way that you can’t come back from.

you reach for your vanilla body wash, desperate for something familiar, something comforting.

the moment your fingers curl around the bottle, you realize it’s empty.

your breath catches.

it’s stupid. 

it’s just body wash. you can use dae-ho’s. 

it doesn’t matter.

it does.

your hand trembles slightly as you pick up his bottle instead, the scent of cedarwood and musk filling the space. it smells like him, like the warmth of his embrace, like the shirts you steal from his side of the closet. 

you squeeze the soap into your net sponge, rubbing it over your arms, your shoulders, your chest. the wrongness lingers, settling into the hollow of your ribs like an ache that won’t fade.

when will this get easier?

the thought slams into you like a wave, sudden and suffocating.

your chest tightens, and before you can stop it, tears spill over your cheeks, mixing with the water streaming down your face.

you bite down on your lip, trying to keep the sobs at bay, but it’s useless. the emotions hit all at once, hard and overwhelming, crushing under the weight of everything you’ve been holding in.

your shoulders shake as the sobs build, as the exhaustion and frustration and sadness pour out of you in waves you can’t control. 

you press a trembling hand to your mouth, trying to muffle the sounds, trying not to let it get too loud and scare seo-ah from her bedroom.

no matter how hard you try, no matter how much you tell yourself to just get over it, to just be strong…you can’t stop.

the walls feel too close. the steam is suffocating. the sound of the water is deafening.

you squeeze your eyes shut, gripping onto the tile as you try to catch your breath, try to pull yourself together, try to remind yourself that you are okay.

you don’t feel okay.

you don’t know when you will again.

your body still aches. your breasts are sore from pumping, tender in a way that makes you wince when the water hits them. 

the final straw.

and then—

the door creaks open.

you don’t hear footsteps, don’t hear anything other than your own quiet cries. 

then the shower door slides open, and suddenly, there he is.

dae-ho.

your husband.

your breath catches as he takes you in….your trembling frame, the water streaming down your face, the way you try so desperately to wipe away the evidence of your breakdown.

he’s not having any of it.

without a word, he steps forward, his black shirt and joggers instantly soaked as he pulls you into his arms.

“baby,” he breathes against your wet hair, his voice thick with emotion. 

“don’t do that. don’t hide from me.”

you break.

your hands clutch at his shirt, your sobs shaking your whole body as he holds you. his large hands cradle the back of your head, his fingers slipping through your soaked hair as he rocks you gently.

“i know it’s hard,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. 

“but i’m right here. i’ll always be right here.”

and you believe him.

he stays with you until the tears slow, until your breathing steadies. 

then, gently, he helps you out of the shower, wrapping a towel around you before drying you off with so much tenderness it nearly makes you cry all over again.

you don’t lift a finger.

he stands behind you, brushing through your damp hair before braiding it, his fingers moving with practiced ease thanks to his older sisters. 

he massages your vanilla body butter into your skin, his touch warm, comforting. when he helps you into your nightgown, his fingers linger at your waist, his gaze full of something so raw, so real, that it makes your breath hitch.

in bed, he helps you pump, his hands resting on your thighs, his presence a grounding force.

finally, when you’re settled against him, you whisper, 

“did they go to sleep easily?”

dae-ho hums. 

“byeol was easy, but seo-ah went on a five-minute rant about oreo ice cream before tiring herself out.”

you giggle softly, your heart swelling. 

“she really loves that ice cream.”

you don’t speak again until the question that has been weighing on you slips past your lips.

“dae…will i feel beautiful again?”

dae-ho’s response is immediate.

he pulls you close, pressing kiss after kiss to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips.

“you are beautiful now,” he murmurs against your skin. 

“you’ve always been beautiful. you gave us the most perfect babies. and i promise, baby, you’ll feel normal again. until then, i’ll be here. every step of the way.”

and in his arms, in his warmth, you believe him.

you will be okay, even if postpartum depression keeps trying to consume you.

masterlist

[rabbitinashell]

Ladies and gentlewomen, boothill.

Art by @/Kinee_e on X

Boothill in the Sheets: Wild, Unpredictable, and Completely Addictive

Boothill is a gunslinger, a wanderer, and a man who plays by his own rules - and that applies to everything he does, including the way he handles you in bed.

He's got that Southern charm, a cocky smirk, and a devil-may-care attitude - but don't be fooled. When it comes down to it, he takes what he wants, and he does it with reckless, intoxicating passion.

1. Rough, Wild, and Unapologetic

Boothill is the definition of raw, unfiltered dominance-he doesn't hold back, and he sure as hell doesn't do slow and tender.

• Expect reckless hands, bruising kisses, and being pinned down before you even realize what's happening

• "You look real pretty beggin' like that. Keep goin'."

2. The Perfect Mix of Cocky & Dangerous

• That self-assured smirk never leaves his face - he knows exactly how good he is, and he'll make sure you do too.

• He's the type to tease you mercilessly just to hear you whine and squirm beneath him.

• "C'mon, sugar, use your words. What's the matter? Too wrecked to think?"

3. No Hesitation, No Mercy

• Boothill doesn't do hesitation - once he sets his sights on you, you're his - plain and simple.

• He moves fast, hard, and relentless, making sure you're completely ruined before he's even close to done.

• Expect taunting whispers, rough hands, and a pace that leaves no room for catching your breath.

4. Stamina & Endurance That'Il Break You

● That man's a fighter, a cowboy, a survivor - he doesn't tire easily, and he sure as hell isn't stopping until he sees you fall apart completely.

• "Aw, sugar, already tappin' out? That's a damn shame. I was just gettin' started."

• Once is never enough - he'll have you again and again, and again, until you're too weak to even move.

5. Unpredictable & Unhinged

• Boothill isn't just dominant - he's chaotic, meaning you never know what he's gonna do next.

• One second, he's biting your neck, hands gripping your hips rough enough to bruise - the next, he's pulling back, smirking down at you, daring you to beg for more.

• "Tell me how bad you want it, darlin' Maybe I'Il be nice."

Bonus: Kinks & Preferences

• Brat-Taming & Power Play - He loves a challenge - the more you fight back, the rougher he gets.

• Dirty Talk, Degradation, and Praise - Expect a lot of "good girl," "that's my girl," and "look at you, fallin' apart for me."

• Biting & Bruising - He leaves marks everywhere - because if you're his, the world's gonna know it.

• Manhandling & Control- He can easily overpower you, holding you down and taking his time watching you struggle.

• Teasing & Edging - Just to make you squirm, he'll drag things out, watching with that cocky grin as you beg him to just give in already.

6. Aftercare: Rough Exterior, Soft Core

• He's not the type to be openly soft, but his aftercare is unspoken and deeply sincere.

• He'll run a hand through your hair, lazily tracing circles on your skin, acting like he doesn't care - but he does.

• "Rest up, sugar. You're gonna need it."

Final Verdict: A Wild Ride You'll Never Forget

Boothill is reckless, cocky, and completely unrelenting - the kind of lover who'll wreck you, laugh about it, and then do it all over again.

To be wanted by him is to be caught in a wildfire - dangerous, consuming, and impossible to resist.

[lov3darlings]

saw that you wanted requests…. wb a little more fluffy take on figure skater reader x lando? maybe reader teaches him how to skate 😼 idk if this completely fits w the dynamic that you write them w tho, so if you don’t like this idea, feel free to ignore !

hav a great day :)

darlings thoughts

cw: fluff, fluff and lil sexual tension ig. obvi that 6 year age gap. also dw it does fit with the dynamic. they're the type of couple that ppl look and say 'omg he's really spoiled her.'

"i won't laugh," you promised kissing his cheek. you were trying to convince lando to go skating with you and somehow you ended up on his lap trying to bribe him with kisses.

while lando loved all of you, specially the figure skater you and your endless competitive drive. he was worried that he'd embarrass himself infront of you.

but he cannot possibly say no to you, even if he tried. besides, he's shown you all parts of him, even the parts of him that came with racing. it was only fair that he went skating with you.

"fine," he gives in. his face breaking into a smile when he sees your face light up. "but you can't laugh," he warns threading his fingers through your hairs. "i won't."

and that's how he ended up at think you train at an ungodly hour.

your laugh boomed through the empty rink, drowning out the symphony of your master and magarita program. "you said you wouldn't laugh," lando says. you skate effortlessly towards him.

"my bad," she extends out her palms for him to hold. "don't worry i got thi—" he almost slipped making you laugh harder. "come on," you grab his hands.

"you're so tensed, loosen up love," you say. "yeah, but what if i fall?" he glares at the frozen body of water beneath his skates. "you won't. i got you," you try to reassure him. "yeah like how you said you won't laugh," he scoffs at you. "well, not like that."

lando finally loosens up, standing more straight and holding onto you firmer. "see it's so much easier," you say as you skate backwards. but the older man is too busy admiring you.

he looks at you with awe as you crane your neck backwards to make sure you both won't run into the boards. the way the untucked hairs fall over your face. he moves his hand to tuck it behind your ears.

"wow," he mumbles under his breathe. "huh?" you look him. his loving gaze making you flustered. "focus on skating lando," you say. "how can i when i have this absolutely stunning angel teaching me," he cups your face.

everything blurs around you two. the symphony already died down for him even though the notes of the piano became intense. for him, it was just you and him. even forgetting he was on ice with sharp skates stapped to his feet.

"i love you," he leans down to kiss your forehead. "i love you too," you whisper adding a subtle dramatic flare to it that he missed. taking his hands in yours but slowly, retrieving your hands as you skate away.

lando stands in the middle of the rink, alone with no aid. he watched you skate away cheekily as the realization dawned upon him. he stood there with no aid. "sweetheart," he whined. "yeah?" you teased.

lando pouted, but his instincts was to follow you. taking wobbly strides to chase after you. you giggled at him but those giggles were cut short when you saw him fall.

"oh my god are you okay?" you kneel next to him. lando wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you onto him. "haha gotcha," he chuckled. "fuck off that's not fair," you rolled your eyes at him, laying down next to him on the ice.

"it's called throwing a dummy to overtake," he smirks. "but don't you think my acting was emmy worth? you were totally scared," he added. "i wasn’t," you argue.

"sure darling, whatever helps you sleep at night," he brings you closer to him. "now come on teach me how do i do that signature spin of your," he says. "yeah no, you'll risk an injury. you're not flexible enough. plus jon is gonna eat my head off if you get injured."

"makes sesne. but you, my love are very very flexible," his hands play with the hem of your sports bra. his attention finally lands on the master and magarita loop that was playing.

"you know i really love this program and the dress. we should get you more replicas of it. it's so pretty to tear it off of you," he whispers. "shut up," you hit his chest, blushing.

[itsadmiralactually]

@ellena-asgasg

I see where you’re coming from and I respect it, but I must disagree. And this is why:

There is an age-old saying, one which James himself quoted that night in the brothel: “Old habits die hard.” As much as we want them to, most people can’t change what they’ve known since childhood. They can't walk away from it. In James’ case, he’s been in the Royal Navy since the tender age of 6-years old. His father essentially raised him to be a soldier; to be an incorruptible pillar of strength, honor, leadership, discipline, and justice. And he was. In a sense, I think he became “spoiled,” if you will, by his success. That’s why when Elizabeth rejected him in favor of someone who was nowhere near his equal, he went off the deep end: because he didn’t know how to handle such an insult, a defeat, of that magnitude. Let’s not forget that for the past 8 years (in CotBP), he literally ruled the seas; as we say here in the south, he was “kicking ass and taking names.” He is at his best when he is in charge of something.

Now let’s take a look at what happened in DMC. He crashed and burned (figuratively) and lost his commission… as well as everything else. Where did he go? Tortuga—a place where he could’ve easily started over and became a pirate like most men who were RN washouts. He had a chance to embrace the type of freedom you’re talking about. But what did he do with this chance? He let himself go: unshaven, unkempt, clothed in the tattered remains of his uniform (with more than likely stolen items of clothing; a.k.a the trousers, boots, and waistcoat). He was on a collision course hell-bent on self-destruction. He would’ve drank himself to death were it not for his chance encounter with Jack and Gibbs, just as he would’ve stayed in that pigsty if Elizabeth had not pulled him out of it. When she brought him to the Pearl, he could’ve very easily made a 180 and embraced the life of piracy, and had he not stolen the heart of Davy Jones, he would’ve ended up on the Dutchman , and everybody on the Pearl would be dead. I would argue that would be a fate worse than becoming captain of the Dutchman, as well as point out that he needs that order, routine, and structure. Without it, his life literally goes to shit.

Fast-forward to the events in AWE. We first see him clothed in the EITC Navy uniform. He is an admiral, yes, but he is not free. He is under the control of the most conniving little shrimp to ever sail the Seven Seas. Due to his actions, the most powerful ship in the Caribbean—in the entire world—has come under this tyrannical asshole’s command… and it’s all because of what James did. When he finds Governor Swann’s body aboard the ship (according to the script), I think that’s the moment the foundations of everything he knew and everything he believed in came crumbling down. I think Elizabeth being captured and seeing what she has become was the feather that broke the camel’s back. That night he set her free, what does she ask him? She asks him to come with her. She asked him to step away from everything he knew (or what was left of it). He had that same choice as he did when he was in Tortuga: to start afresh; to start a new life. And he didn’t. He hesitated and you can clearly see he wants to… but he doesn’t. When Psycho Bill (Bootstrap) interrupts, he says, “Go! I will follow!” and Elizabeth knows instantly that he’s lying. That’s when he makes his famous quote: “Our destinies have been entwined, Elizabeth… but never joined.” Why did he say this? He had the chance to start over and live life to its fullest; to be like Elizabeth, to be like Will. But what did he do? He stayed behind. And he died for it. He died to save her. He could not walk away from what has been drilled into him since childhood.

As much as he wanted to, as much as we wanted him to, James simply cannot change who and what he is. He is a man of duty, honor, and discipline. He is a natural-born leader. I fully believe he intended to take control of the Dutchman that night once he was certain Elizabeth was safe. He knew he was going to die anyway. At the very least, I think he wanted it to mean something; to be worthwhile. Freeing pirates is a blatant act of treason, after all. It would either be a firing squad on his own quarterdeck or (most likely, cuz Beckett is a sadist and all that) he would be hanged. He might even have been tortured beforehand since he’d essentially become Beckett’s “pet," and I can't imagine the lesser of two men would let him off easy without having his final "say-so."

In any case, given the atrocities and all the bloodshed that happened because of what he did, I think James felt like it was his duty to take over the Dutchman to ensure that something like that would never happen again; that the supernatural power of this sort would never fall into the wrong hands. Not only would him becoming captain of the Dutchman ensure his survival, but it would help him become who he once was. I think he would find freedom in being the leader of a vessel with such a noble cause like ferrying those who died at sea to the other side. He would become that pillar of incorruptible virtue once more. That is who he is. It is what he is, and always will be.

Again, I see where you’re coming from and I respect it, but I have to disagree. Fun debate, though! :-)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sparkle in my Eye 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Captain Syverson

This AU is called Watcher Anonymous and will include different series for different characters. This is our introduction to Syverson and Gem.

Summary: there's more growing in the garden than flowers.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“Oh, I’m just getting ready—yeah, yeah, we can go tonight.” Her voice trickles down from the open doors of her balcony. 

Sy wipes a sheet of sweat from his brow and snips another thick stem with the pruners. He nearly catches the fingertips of his thick gloves. He’s working off of instinct rather than focus. He’s entwined in her conversation, though the other side he only catches pieces. 

“Ew, Margo, please, you know I'm not doing that. The kind of guys that take you home aren’t what I’m looking for,” Gem scoffs and sets something down. “Oof, I cannot get my hair to behave!” 

“You look fine,” the muffled response comes from her phone speaker. 

He knows she does. She always looks perfect. He pulls away a dried out stem and drops it in the clutter. It’s a nice day out but the sun is burning through his shirt. It’s like fire on the back of his neck. He pauses to adjust his hat and looks up. 

He sees her shadow looking off the balcony. The house is just as immense as the yard. His work takes at least a day but he can’t complain; her father overpays him for what he does. Who wouldn’t? With a house like this? A family? You’d want it all to be kept just so. 

“Ugh, don’t be a bitch,” Gem sneers. “It’s my car, I can take it when I want--” 

“Yeah, but daddy--” 

“Do you even want me to come over?” She snips. 

He laughs but not loud enough to be heard. She has some fire and her friends deserve that. They're all spoiled. She is too but she’s not like them. 

She closes the doors. Good. She forgets to do that sometimes and from the right angle, anyone could see in. If they knew the gate code, they could even get in. 

He shoves the snipped ends and dead bits in a compost bag. As he rolls the edge, she comes out. He keeps her in his peripheral but doesn’t look directly at her. She waves. 

“Is my dad gone?” She asks. 

“Em, yeah, think he left a while ago,” he peeks over at her. He takes off his cap and wipes his face on his arm. 

“Oh, it’s very hot. I should’ve brought you some water,” she tuts. “Anyhow, I’m on my way out. Looks nice out here.” 

“Thanks, miss,” he says. 

She smiles at him, “Sy?” She asks, hands on her hips. 

“Yes, miss?” 

“How does my hair look?” She turns to show him all of it. His eyes dart down to her checkered skirt. Quickly, he lifts them back to her face. 

“It looks very nice,” he assures her. It always does.  

“Aw, thanks, Sy,” she shimmies. “Well, have a good day. I’ll see ya next week.” 

She dances off in her platform heels and digs in her purse to find her keys. The white mercedes beeps and unlocks and she takes her time getting everything sorted. Purse in the passenger, pink leather knapsack in the back.  

She’s finally in. She backs up and the gates open at the push of her button. She swerves around and drives through. He watches until she’s gone. He just needs to clean up anyway. 

He leaves an hour later. He leaves his truck at home. It’s too obvious. He takes the pontiac in his garage instead. The pet project put together from his fruitful business and scavenging in junk yards. He drives past Margot’s and parks a block down. 

There’s a place around here where he does the hedges. They have a nice tree in the back too. It’s not exactly cozy and a bit of an effort but he gets to the top and perches between the branches. He’s been trying to cut weight but he’s always been on the thicker side. 

He can see almost right into Margot’s room. Gem is there. She has a glass bottle with bright pink liquid inside. He doesn’t think she should drink so much or so early but that’s why he keeps an eye on her. 

The girls eventually head out. He follows them to the mall. He eats while they waste time at that makeup shop. They come out and he gives them a bit to get ahead of him. He’s tired but he doesn’t have any other jobs to do. 

Dinner at a fancy place that demands ties and jackets sees him scrolling on the Discord. A few of the other men say they made progress, whatever that means. Some of those guys are a bit off. Especially that Cole fellow. Clumsy, to boot. 

After, the girls go down the street to a flashing marquee. They head into the bar without being stopped. The pretty ones never have trouble. He waits an hour, restless, then goes in after them. 

He trawls the place. He finds her. She’s got another drink. A bad habit. He nearly drowned in the stuff after he got back from serving. She’s young, she’ll learn. 

A man approaches her and Margot. He’s up on Gem before she even notices. She grabs his hand and moves it away from her hip. The other girl giggles. It’s obvious her friend is uncomfortable but she just thinks it’s amusing. 

Gem deserves better. She deserves people who care about more than labels and credit cards. She just needs that bubble popped. One day she’ll see.  

[banana-can-do-art]

Guys I just finished the well it’s not the entirety of Riddle’s dream there’s still like an hour and a half that hasn’t been translated on Gasmask’s channel but I finished the part that they did translate and omg heeelp this is the best dream yet. This is so sad omg I have to ramble about it also all translations I’m using are from gas mask on YouTube.

First of all omg he’s so happy it’s making me sad. Also him saying that he would be tired of everything being the same all the time right after I made that post rambling about how his implied OCD causes him to always do everything in a “samey” manner I aaaaagghhhh. And he’s saying that he’s going to have a chaotic band because in his dream he isn’t upset when things aren’t in order and he can just let himself be happy. You can’t do this to meeee! But there’s more!

Look he’s happily breaking the rules and feeling no anxiety about it whatsoever. (OCD be gone). In his dream world he can do what he wants with no terrible parents or mental illness holding him back. Look at him he’s adorable. And then we have this though agghhh.

This is so sad! When Ace and everyone tells him about what he’s like in real life as though they are talking about another person, Riddle immediately hates the person they are describing. Because he doesn’t like who he is irl. In fact, Riddle even says here that he hates school and studying and that it makes people miss out on the fun things in life. It’s so sad because who he actually is irl is the complete opposite of what he wants to be. He’s so isolated and self loathing I can’t.

Also in the dream Riddle isn’t even a mage. Because he doesn’t even actually like doing magic because all of the joy was sapped out of that for him because he’s always expected to do it perfectly. He never just gets to do magic because he wants to or because it’s fun but rather only because others expect and pressure him too. It feels like the idea of a hobby losing its charm and fun when people have to make it into their jobs. (I hope that doesn’t happen to me heeeelp)

Also I felt so bad for Trey during this because he knows the most about Riddle’s reality and he is the entrenched in it himself. Riddle’s mom screamed at him for five hours as a child and he’s scarred from everything that happened with Riddle and his mom as a kid and yet now he’s supposed to just walk into Riddle’s house like nothing’s wrong. That must be so jarring and unsettling. Props to Trey for managing to do that honestly that’s freaking terrifying.

Also I can’t with all of those pictures on the wall. What do you mean he hates his real life so much that in his dreams his entire memory has become fabricated. His real life memories are completely different from his dream memories. And what do you mean that in his dream his parents are together and they love him and neither of them are mages and he just lives a happy and normal life?! What do you mean?!

Also, even though his parents love him in the dream, his mom has been so awful to him irl that even though everything is fake he can’t even actually picture her face saying nice things to him so it’s just the house talking to him. That’s so awful!

Also then we get this whole reference to the scene in Alice in wonderland where Alice has the big tears and people are drowning. Except it’s tea this time lol. Also Riddle crying that he wants to get out of the house is so sad even in his dreams he can’t escape agshdjdjdj. Omg Cater is so funny in the drowning scene though, he’s just like stop crying we’re gonna drown lmao. Also I know Chenya is fake but it is still so unbelievably funny how he is literally drowning in tea and yet he just has this huge smirk on his face the whole time lol. Chenya’s so silly.

Also the house became so creepy omg I saw someone saying it looks like an rpg maker horror game and like it really does! Specifically I think it really looks like Sunny’s house during the truth sequence of Omori.

Speaking of rpg maker horror games, Malleus was really channeling his inner rpg maker horror villain this update. Poor Idia lol. My condolences to Idia, he’s become the main character of an rpg maker horror game. I dunno Idia if we are going for Omori parallels then maybe you should open that door.

And then later when he gets pulled deeper the dream reflects false desires. To have control over the dorm while everyone bows down to him is was he thinks he wants but not his actual true desire. That’s why in the second layer of his dream even though he is in power, he still seems miserable because we know that he doesn’t even want to be a mage in the first place, much less have all of these rules.

And then Chenya pushes him over and he gets tangled in his cape lmao. That was so funny and then the screen is just Riddle with his feet in the air lmao. That outfit is not conducive to getting up from a fall.

But omg when the darkness is telling him that in the dream they respect him while irl he is isolated it’s so sad. Because he knows that irl his rules and strictness (and OCD) isolate him and that’s why it’s so difficult for him to make friends. He understands that he is lonely because he is a control freak like this, and yet it’s the only thing that he knows how to do because it’s all he’s been taught. (And also because he’s mentally ill you see).

This is all so sad I can’t. Twst! How could you do this to me?!

Anyway, in conclusion punk band Riddle is the most amazing thing to ever grace my eyeballs just look at him. We need a Riddle vocaloid band rhythm game spinoff immediately actually. Also his new fit is absolutely slaying look at him go!

Now I must wait in agony for the next hour and a half or so to be translated by the great and amazing fandom hero, gasmask.

[lady-of-endless]

"Glimpse of us" (Seong Gi-hun x player!reader - season 2)

Summary: There you were, in the middle of the chaos, giving him a glimpse of what you two share.

Author's Note: I know that I promised a part two for the In-ho fic, but Gi-hun has priority. The Mingle game does wonders for fanfic ideas.

(Squid Game masterlist here)

So many people were trapped there willingly or not, so many lives that could be lost and not lived to their fullest. Is money really worth it? He found himself staring each person in the face, wanting nothing more than to shout at them in the moment they all stared in awe at the suspended piggy bank.

You swore that you saw a different man when looking at Gi-hun during the games. There was nothing but pure determination and worry in his eyes when scanning the arena but only you knew him and how broken, tired, but paradoxically insomniac he was in reality. Gi-hun's eyes traveled to you like they always did when everything was too much to bear, and his gaze softened.

He cursed himself countless times for letting you come with him. He wished you'd be helping from the outside, safely, but no matter how far his convincing went you still didn't listen. You faced the horror of the games with him, guilt slowly poisoning Gi-hun day by day, game by game.

How could he let you join? Gi-hun frowned and looked away, fixing his gaze on something else. He knew this would be both complicated and motivating at the same time. Still, for your safety, he kept his distance and told you to do the same. You both decided to keep it all a secret during the games, even from his old friend Jung-Bae. You could vividly remember the last embrace you shared before coming here and it felt like ages ago.

The possible regret of choosing to follow him in these games was unknown to you. Not even now, when you almost felt nauseous just from the mere, slow, spinning of the platform.

They all recognized the game, the Mingle game. The instructions were clear and yet, you could feel your heart slamming against your ribcage bolder than before.

You needed to look at him to keep your ground. Your eyes met again while no one paid attention. Sensing something was wrong, Gi-hun studied your face the way he wanted to and didn't allow himself to. As you touched your chest to feel your heartbeat, his jaw clenched and the tension in his shoulders was immediately visible to you underneath the turquoise tracksuit, all because of his worry. The back of his hand touched your free hand at your side, subtly, hiding it by stepping closer next to you. The fleeting worry of exposure shadowed your anxiety about the game for a moment but he was quick to talk.

"Be careful." He whispered to you while still looking around. "It's the only thing I'm asking for."

You closed your eyes and nodded once. That's what he said to you the last time he held you in his arms before joining this hell. As the song and the platform went on, you let yourself look at Gi-hun and recall the days before. You remembered how he was losing sleep, how desperate he was to hold you, how he tried to convince you to give up coming with him, and how he confessed again and again out of fear of whatever might happen. All of those thoughts paused with the platform's abrupt stop.

Five.

It was the first number announced in the speakers and which unleashed the chaos around you.

You were all six in Gi-hun's team. Gi-hun immediately decided to search for others to pair up with so that the rest of the team could stick together and be safe. He gave a slight nod to everyone, holding your gaze for a moment longer, a subtle signal that he would return safely. With that, he headed off into the crowd, leaving the group temporarily fractured. You shook your head to snap out of it and rushed the team to a room, taking Gi-hun's role in leading them to safety.

You could feel the adrenaline in your blood get out of control with each round completed with or without Gi-hun around. It was too much. The team reunited between rounds in a rush, but the joy of seeing them all alive was always interrupted by the speakers announcing the next number. And the next number was the last one.

Two.

Everyone froze. You looked at Gi-hun but he was already staring back. Without hesitation, he stepped forward.

"I'll go with you," He said firmly, determination etched in every deep line of his face. After making sure that the rest of the team split into pairs too, fast, he grabbed your arm and rushed you to the room before it was too late for both.

He got you in the room first and then him. You immediately leaned against the door, breathing heavily. The adrenaline, your heartbeat, it got worse. Gi-hun's hand reached the door next to your head, to steady himself in front of you, panting too.

"You okay?" Gi-hun asked, his voice quiet yet filled with concern, his eyes studying your face for any reaction. The door locked with a short and distinctive click.

"I'm okay, I'm good." You lied to yourself, nodding, agitated

"Just breathe," he murmured, his voice gentle.

Gi-hun watched as you struggled to regulate your breathing, the rise and fall of your chest rapid, your face flushed. He placed a hand on your chest, feeling the frantic beating of your heart against his palm.

"Slow... Slow, deep breaths," he coached gently, his own voice a little vulnerable because of the proximity between you that was slowly more evident.

As you began to slow your breathing, following his steadying guidance, Gi-hun could feel your heart rate slow, the erratic beats becoming more regular under his touch.

"That's it," he murmured, his hand still resting on your chest, fingers splayed against the fabric of your tracksuit jacket. "Were here together, remember," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "We have to keep going." The words were supposed to sound firm and determined, but it all came out hesitantly, weakly.

Gi-hun's mind was a storm of thoughts and feelings. It was too long since you two were close since he touched you since he could feel you. Being so close but so out of reach because of his plan was harder than he expected. He cleared his throat, trying again. "We need to..."

Gi-hun's train of thought was interrupted by the sight of your face. He missed looking at you from this close, feeling your breath on his skin. His eyes were searching for something, anything that could break that tension. All the abstinence, all the longing, and the hiding were making both of you tense and distracted. He could feel it peak now, in the worst moment possible.

"We need to focus," he repeated, but the words felt hollow, the meaning behind them shifting, taking a different turn, a more intimate one. His forehead touched yours.

His eyes suddenly darted to the timer from the wall to the surveillance camera from the corner of the room to the small window from the door that was blocked by your head. There was still time to be spent in that room alone with you. Outside, there was chaos, and he needed a taste of distraction from it all to keep going. The room, the game, the danger, he wanted to forget it all for just a few seconds that were left.

Your face got framed by both of his hands, his fingers lacing through your hair. Before it was too late, his lips found yours in a kiss he missed so much. His touch was gentle yet tense, not knowing what to do first, how much time he had left, wanting to touch you the way he always did before the games. The kiss was a fragile, fleeting thing; the seconds were still ticking, but for him, it all faded in a blur. Gi-hun guided your arms around his neck and sighed into the kiss. Your lips took him back to how much he cares for you and how grateful he is for you. He knew it earlier, from the days spent with you in that motel. You'd always help him with his plans and heart. Gi-hun knew how he was the shell of the simple man he used to be years ago before winning the games, but his heart was still capable of loving with zeal.

His fingers ran down your spine, pushing you against him while his other hand grabbed yours, fingers intertwining. He could lose everything and not care, but not if he were to lose you, the only good thing in his life. The temporary bliss was interrupted by your gasp as the ticking stopped and the door unlocked with a click. You both stepped back hesitantly, both wanting and needing more but the harsh reality of the game and your mission was slipping back into your consciousness. Gi-hun pulled away from you; his breath was uneven, his eyes holding a storm of emotions, and his body felt the absence of your touch.

"The game is over," he murmured, his voice a rough whisper. "We survived another one."

You nodded, catching your breath. His presence calmed you down. You felt a rush of hope when looking into his eyes but you sighed, knowing that it was time to face the other remaining players and hide any form of attachment again. Gi-hun pulled you against him one last time, kissing you again, deeply for a moment before everything. Both of you exchanged one last glance before stepping back in the arena, shielding you.

Searching around for survivors and for his team with a hard expression, Gi-hun's fingertips found his lips in a subtle touch, the heat of your kiss still lingered, giving him another rush of determination to get the whole system of the game down, end it all and leave with you.

[masterj]

Watching SLOTLT:

....Okay... we need to talk about Sodor's Legend Of The Lost Treasure. Many TTTE fans love it and call it "the best special" and "the peak of CGI Thomas." But we need to face facts. It's far from everyone's favorite and actually the Most Controversial of CGI Thomas.

My stance? I say people who don't like SLOTLT are right- just for not for the valid reasons. Prepare to be roasted.

The movie heavily flanderizes Thomas and ruins his character development throughout the series. It practically takes everything that made him unlikable in the Miller era and turned him back into a complete, 100% irresponsible idiot. Take The Great Discovery, a special VERY similar in plot for example. After his trick on Stanley that demolishes the tower, he actually shows full remorse and tries to make up for his mistake.

In Lost Treasure, that is not the case. Here at the start of the movie he's just like, "I'm number one so I can do what I want!"

And it's not until THE DAY AFTER the Dynamite Incident that it finally sinks in and he's like "Aw it was my fault..."

Plus, he would've been mature enough by now not to let Gordon's teasing get to him. In Season 5, he literally tells Percy to just ignore George's insults and simply does just that.

Why are insults such a big deal to him NOW that he has to run of with Gordon's coaches and derail them??? This doesn't make sense! Yes, he is meant to be cheeky, but how the hell do we go from how he's written in Tale Of The Brave to this?!

So much dumb shit happens that could've and should have been easily avoided. The accidents Thomas cause would've have been stopped in a heartbeat if they ACTUALLY REMEMBERED drivers and firemen exist. When Thomas falls into the cavern? HOW THE HELL are they so unaware of the workmen shouting trying to stop them?! How do they not once look where he is going and see the signs?!

They're not even trying! Look at them in the cab! Up until the accident happens they're practically just chillin'! You're not fooling anybody! Are they high on crack in there??? Are they paying rent in there??? Do they just spontaneously go blind and deaf??? Hello?!?! Wake up and control your fucking train!!!

Let's cut back to the coaches. WHY is Thomas shunting Gordon's coaches when that is NOT his job anymore now that he has his branchline?! That's the whole reason the big engines went on strike and Percy was brought to the railway! Topham has HOW many shunters now? And you're SERIOUSLY gonna tell me not a single one could've done it instead? Look how empty Knapford is!

What about the Diesel Boxcab introduced this season? Why isn't he in this movie to do that instead? Did he die?

Overall, SLOTLT is just a pointless Great Discovery rehash sprinkled with stale RWS references, (which help set up this movie's god awful plot in the first place) returned characters, and cinematic visuals and music pretending it's actually a good movie with a likeable plot. Not only does it take the three-strike formula and fail miserably at making it good, (The three accidents Thomas causes) it can't even remember the show's continuity properly for God's sake! For a what's supposed to be a tribute to the RWS, this is not a good look at all, Andrew Brenner. You did not cook.

What's even worse is that for all these years everyone in this fandom just blindly glazes over everything this movie does wrong and then act like it's illegal for someone not to like it and it's disgusting. This movie single-handedly damaged the entire TTTE fandom for 10 years. 10. FUCKING. YEARS.

We already had a special that did this kind of plot so much better in every way. WHY are we doing it AGAIN??? Why wasn't The Adventure Begins enough for this year???

We did not need this. We did not need any of this shit. Just skip to Season 20 and you are not missing too much, I promise you. Peak CGI Thomas my ass. HALF the CGI specials are the least bit more deserving than this shitshow.

This movie sucks. We do not speak of it, I'm done talking about it, it's not canon, it doesn't deserve to be, it never existed. It's dead to me.

All it's got going for it are the visuals, voice acting and music, Donald, Douglas, Alfie and Oliver returning, and the Miniature Engines introduced. That's it.

Just because a movie looks 'cinematic' does not automatically make it good.

[goldfades]

WNBA CHAMPS ───── LUKA DONCIC (crashout couple)

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine FREE PALESTINE!

�� ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 1.8k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | (request for my baby jo, @wanderlusturous) luka and reader at the wnba finals after the liberty win it for the very first time

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | nothing but fluff!!! luka being a proud husband<3

You don’t hear the buzzer. Not really.

Not over the chaos, the explosion of sound from the packed Barclays Center, not over your own blood rushing in your ears, drowning out everything except the echo of the shot you just made.

A logo three. Your logo three.

Ball arcing high, perfect rotation, the kind of shot that makes the crowd inhale as one—and then the net barely ripples as it drops through. Clean. Filthy. Forever.

It takes a second for reality to catch up, for the scoreboard to register what you already know in your bones: it’s over. Liberty, WNBA Champions.

And then everything breaks.

Your teammates hit you like a tidal wave. Someone tackles you—Sabrina? Betnijah?—and you go down, the weight of a whole franchise crashing over you in screams and tears and flying water bottles. The confetti starts before you can even process it, gold and seafoam raining from the ceiling, getting caught in your lashes, in your braids, in the sweat still cooling on your skin.

Your chest is heaving, heart sprinting, and when you finally claw your way out of the dogpile, searching for the first person you need to see, he’s already there.

Luka.

Front row, arms flung so wide it’s like he’s trying to grab the whole damn moment in his hands. His mouth is open, screaming something you can’t hear but absolutely feel, something loud and ridiculous, probably in Slovenian, probably something that’ll get clipped and memed by tomorrow morning.

He’s been a problem all night. Worn your jersey like he was on the team, talked shit to the refs, nearly got ejected from his courtside seat after he and Breanna Stewart’s wife started chirping in Spanish at each other in the third.

And now, he looks—god—he looks like he just won, too.

Like you just hit that shot for him.

Like you’d do it all over again if it meant seeing him like this.

Your legs move before your mind does. You shove past the cameras, the interviewers, the mob of celebration, sprinting full-speed toward the sideline, Luka already stepping over security like they don’t even exist. He barely has time to open his arms before you’re in them, legs wrapping tight around his waist, his arms locking around you like there’s nowhere else on earth you belong.

"You saw that?" you gasp against his ear, laughing, crying, shaking.

"I saw everything."

Luka is shaking.

Not in the way you’ve seen on the court—bouncing with adrenaline after a game-winner, vibrating with the last remnants of competition. No, this is something else entirely.

His grip on you is tight, almost desperate, like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll disappear into the confetti storm, into the chaos of cameras and screaming fans. His chest rises and falls in uneven bursts beneath your hands, like he can’t catch his breath. Like he just ran the length of the court in your shoes.

You pull back just enough to see his face, to take in the way his eyes shine under the bright arena lights. Luka never cries. Not after wins, not after losses. He swears he did once—after the 2018 EuroLeague championship—but you’ve never seen it yourself, only heard the story in passing, a rare glimpse at the part of him that cares so much it hurts.

But right now?

Right now, there’s a dampness at the corners of his eyes, his lips parted in something between awe and disbelief, his whole body still buzzing, like he doesn’t know what to do with all the love, all the pride, all of you.

"You really did it," he breathes, voice thick, uneven.

"You doubted me?" you tease, but your own voice shakes at the edges.

His fingers curl into the fabric of your jersey, gripping at your waist like he needs to hold onto something real, something solid. "Never," he murmurs, shaking his head, pressing his forehead against yours. His skin is warm, damp from the heat of the arena, and for a second—just a second—it’s just the two of you. No cameras, no noise, no legacy-defining moment. Just Luka and you, caught in something bigger than either of you can name.

And then—before you can say anything else, before you can laugh or cry or whisper some smartass comment about how he’s gonna be even more unbearable now that you’ve got a ring—he moves.

Luka lifts you.

Easily, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh a damn thing, arms locked under your thighs as he spins you in the air, laughing through the crack in his voice. The world tilts, gold and green and electric, and you let yourself go with it, throwing your head back, hands tangling in his hair as he carries you in a wide circle, parading you like his trophy, like he just won right alongside you.

"You’re a fucking champion!" he shouts, voice breaking mid-sentence, too full of joy to care. "The best! The best!"

It’s ridiculous. It’s over-the-top.

It’s him.

And when he finally stops spinning, when he sets you down, eyes wild with something uncontainable, you barely have a second to react before he’s cupping your face and kissing you.

It’s not neat. Not soft.

It’s everything.

A crash of lips and teeth and breathless laughter, his hands shaking where they frame your face, your own fingers curled in the fabric of his t-shirt, holding him there, here. The arena is screaming, your teammates calling for you, the trophy waiting, but for this moment—this one, infinite moment—it’s just Luka and you, caught in the aftermath of something neither of you can control.

"You’re gonna be insufferable about this," you gasp when you finally pull away, forehead resting against his.

He grins, dimple deep and cocky. "Oh, you have no idea."

You roll your eyes, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before shoving at his chest. "Alright, alright—I gotta go celebrate with my actual teammates."

Luka groans, dramatic, swiping at his eyes like he wasn’t just on the verge of tears. "Fine. Go. Leave me here. Broken. Forgotten."

"Jesus Christ," you mutter, but you’re laughing as you backpedal, fingers lingering in his grip for just a second longer before you let go, let yourself be swallowed back into the mass of bodies waiting for you.

The last thing you see before you disappear into the sea of jerseys and cameras is Luka, standing courtside, watching you with that same stunned, stupidly in-love expression.

Like he already knows—win or lose, on or off the court—you and him?

You’re always playing for the same team.

ESPN | “WNBA HISTORY: NEW YORK LIBERTY CLINCH FIRST TITLE IN THRILLING FINALS WIN—L/N SEALS IT WITH LOGO THREE” Barclays erupts as Liberty star delivers championship moment—husband Luka Dončić loses his mind courtside.

Luka Dončić doesn’t stop smiling.

Not once.

Not when he takes his seat, not when the reporters fire off their first questions about his game last night, not when someone brings up his recent dust-up with the refs—nothing. He’s all grin, his dimples carved deep, eyes still carrying the afterglow of something far more important than basketball.

It doesn’t take long for someone to bite.

“Luka, your wife just made history tonight,” one reporter starts, barely getting the sentence out before Luka practically vibrates in his seat. “What was it like watching her win her first ring?”

His whole face lights up.

“Bro.” He drags a hand down his face, like he still hasn’t fully processed it. “You don’t understand. I am—” He pauses, exhales sharply, shakes his head. “I am the happiest man alive.”

A chuckle ripples through the room. Luka leans forward, elbows on the table, still grinning like he won the damn championship himself.

“I lost my mind. Gone. Brain—poof.” He makes an explosion motion with his hands. “When she hit that shot? I was gone. Finished. I mean, you saw it, right? Best shot of the whole playoffs. Best player. Best moment. Ever.”

A few reporters laugh, already knowing this press conference has completely derailed.

“People are calling you the ultimate trophy husband after your reaction,” another journalist teases.

Luka beams. “Good! Yes! That’s me! Put it on a t-shirt—I’ll wear it to every game.”

The room cracks up. Someone asks if he’d actually wear a “Trophy Husband” shirt, and without missing a beat, Luka goes, “I’ll wear it to her ring ceremony. Front row. Say I won’t.”

The internet is already eating it up. Twitter is flooded with clips of his reaction, memes of him clapping like a proud PTA mom, videos of him looking like he was about to storm the court himself.

And he did almost storm the court.

--

You’re still on the floor, still in the haze of celebration, the weight of the championship sinking in by the second. The trophy’s been passed around, champagne’s already been popped, and your voice is hoarse from screaming—but you’re still looking for him.

It doesn’t take long.

Luka’s back on the court, despite security’s best efforts to keep him at bay. He’s already in your jersey—where the hell did he even get one that fast?—the name on the back stretched tight across his shoulders.

The moment you spot him, he spots you.

“MY WIFE’S A CHAMPION!” he bellows, arms wide, grin even wider.

“Oh my god,” you groan, but you’re already laughing, already jogging toward him as he moves fast in your direction, ducking past staff and reporters.

The second you reach him, he scoops you up like you weigh nothing, spinning you in the air again because once wasn’t enough, because he needs to hold you, needs you right there in his arms.

You cling to him, laughing, hands in his hair as he presses a long, over-the-top kiss to your cheek.

“MVP!” he yells, still holding you. “BEST IN THE WORLD! BETTER THAN ME! BETTER THAN EVERYONE!”

“Luka, put me down,” you giggle, swatting at him.

“No. No, you won, I won, we’re winning everything.”

“You didn’t win anything,” you tease.

“I won you!”

You groan, half-exasperated, half-melting because god, he’s ridiculous. Perfectly, beautifully ridiculous.

By the time he finally sets you down, you barely have a second to adjust before he cups your face again, tilting your chin up so you see every ounce of joy written across his.

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, steadier. No more yelling, no more antics—just him. Just you. “So, so proud.”

Your chest tightens.

He’s seen you at your lowest, held you through every late-night doubt, every failure, every moment where you didn’t think you’d get here. And now—he’s still here, still holding you, still yours.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His whole face softens.

“Love you more, champ.”

You roll your eyes, but before you can argue, your teammates call for you, dragging you back into the celebrations, into the history you just made.

Luka watches you go, hands still outstretched like he wants to pull you back in.

Like he’ll never get tired of celebrating you.

Like he already knows—he’ll be right here, courtside, for the next one.

[f1cflcfic]

Just Because I Called You (Carlos Sainz) - part iii

pairing: carlos sainz jr x fem!reader

summary: y/n knows there's a reason for his contact details to be saved under 'do not interact', but one call does not mean you miss him.

genre: written au, brief 18+ content, angst

wordcount: 3.2k

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons

previous parts available here.

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This isn’t happening.

It must be a dream, or a nightmare – you’re not entirely sure yet.

Carlos is outside. Has been outside for about two minutes now, if the delivery notification of his message is anything to go by.

Suddenly, that earlier idea of having a fifth martini and shot at the bar seems like a very bad one. In fact, you’re quite certain you wholeheartedly regret them when you stand up and have to immediately grip the back of the chair so as to not fall over. For a brief moment, you consider leaving through the back alley – but then you realise that it really doesn’t make a difference.

Carlos is already here, waiting.

It’s easy to lie to yourself, and pretend that it’s just the alcohol that’s making you feel lightheaded, as you make your way over to the podium once your team is crowned the winner of this month’s pubquiz. It’s easy to pretend that the air feels electric just because you’ve won, and you’re only looking out into the crowd to cheer your victory. It’s easy to pretend that you’re just tired and drunk, and that’s why you’re leaving so soon.

It’s too easy to spot Carlos hiding in the shadows of the pub, and follow him out to his unassuming Golf amidst all the opulence in Monaco, and slip into it like you still belong.

The alcohol has left you a little uncoordinated, and struggling with the seatbelt. On your fourth attempt, Carlos’ large hand reaches out and stills your movements. The ache in you grows a little bigger as you quietly watch him buckle you in, and you try not to focus on the heat his fingers leave behind on your skin.

Desperate not to somehow ruin the precarious peace – or the calm before the storm, your eyes flit across his car. There’s the chilli charm and your housekey, still dangling against the dash. And there’s the stuffy in the back, resembling Carlos’ family dog.

Everything looks the same as it always did.

It’s comforting and awful all at once.

“Smartinis. I like that one,” he murmurs with a soft smile, but you refuse to look at him. Won’t acknowledge that the way it rolls off his tongue is exactly the way in which you’ve been waiting to hear the team name spoken all night.

The problem is that you really do not trust your tongue around him, especially not when it’s already been loosened by alcohol. This cannot end up like that night ten days ago. No matter how much some part of you might want it to.

“What’d you win?”

When he doesn’t start the car immediately, clearly waiting for a response of sorts,  you sigh, fogging up a tiny part of the window your head is resting on. “Restaurant voucher.”

“Oh,” he nods to himself, and you can feel his eyes boring into the back of your head as you meticulously draw a martini glass. “That’s nice.”

It feels awkward and uncomfortable, as the stifling silence descends on you once more. Someone walks past his car, and you wonder what it is exactly that he’s waiting for. Thanks? Acknowledgment? Forgiveness? Answers?

The thought alone has you shaking your head. There’s quite some answers that you’d like from him, instead.

Curiosity wins in the end. “How’d you know where I was?”

“Your location – you never turned it off,” he answers, guilt creeping into his voice as if he hadn’t wanted to admit that particular secret. You can’t help yourself as you turn over in surprise, knowing full well that you’ll find his brown eyes already staring back at you. There’s a whirlpool of emotions in them, and it hurts more than it should, knowing that you’ve inadvertently caused it.

His hand is resting on the console between your seats, and you fight the urge to grab onto it. To seek comfort in his touch, and provide some in return. Instead, you purse your lips and nod to yourself.

“And my sister,” he adds all of a sudden, as if he can’t stand the idea of not spilling his guts to you fully, completely.

You wish he’d done so earlier.

“She – she texted you were drunk, said you were upset. That someone had tried to come on to you.”

His hand leaves the console, and you follow the movement with your eyes as he runs his fingers through his hair. “I know it’s not my place, but I just wanted to make sure you were safe. And then when you didn’t reply, I just – I’m sorry. Joder.”  

It shouldn’t make you feel warm inside. Of course he cares. Carlos, for all his faults, is a good man. One who cares about his sisters. If his sister had implied you needed him, of course he’d come running.

It doesn’t mean anything else, you tell yourself. He hadn’t called, just because. Hadn’t reached out because he’d been missing you. He wouldn’t call for something so silly. He’d called, because his sister had made him feel like he needed to assuage her concerns. That’s all.

When you still don’t respond, he sighs and starts the ignition. But what is it that you even want to say? How can you possibly make sense of your alcohol-infused thoughts?

“He shouldn’t have texted you back,” you settle on. You’re still afraid of looking at him directly, of just how easily your carefully constructed walls would all but implode. Instead, you fixate on the way in which he holds the steering wheel, and how he clenches it just so when you speak. You’ve always known Carlos to be a relaxed driver, and his tight grip is so unlike him, that your eyes shoot up to gage his expression before you’ve even realised. Where he’d been looking at you earlier, he’s focusing on the road now.

“It’s okay ne- I mean. We’re not,” he struggles, as if for a loss of words. “We’re not together anymore.”

You nod, biting your lip. The shoot of pain blooming from your lips distracts from how much it hurts to hear it put so bluntly. To watch Carlos’ tight expression as he says it. It doesn’t feel as liberating as you’d hoped, instead an ugly sense of disappointment coming to the surface.

“Still. You’re not his to text,” you insist. Neither is he yours – not anymore, your brain helpfully provides. It’s Carlos’ turn to remain quiet, the silence feeling all but suffocating.

“Besides, I’m not dating Dean. Or anyone. But especially not him. He’s my colleague – the one your sister mentioned,” you blurt, as if compelled. Maybe it’s a sick need to break the silence, break the tension, a pathetic attempt to reach out. Or maybe it’s the liquid courage, you reason.

When Carlos doesn’t say anything, just briefly looks over with soft eyes and a stubble you’d really love to feel scratch against your skin again, you can’t help but continue.

“Would she have texted you, if she’d known?”

He tenses again, fingers flexing on the wheel. When he doesn’t respond, you try again – asking the question you’ve been dancing around.

“Carlos. Why didn’t you tell your sister about us?”

“Why didn’t you?” He parries, and you frown. It’s the coward’s way out. It’s exactly what had caused you to end up like this, sitting in the same car but feeling miles away apart from each other.

“Don’t do that,” you whisper. “Don’t fucking turn it around on me. It’s your family.”

“I wanted them to be yours, too.”

It’s said so quietly, you almost miss it. Panic unfurls in your chest at the insinuation. Hadn’t this been exactly what you’d been so afraid of?

“It’s not easy, you know? Trying to figure out what happened, and coming to terms with that, and then telling them,” he starts again. “I wanted – I didn’t want this either.”

“So then why you’d come at all,” you snap, tears welling up in your eyes. Whether out of frustration, heartbreak, or alcohol, you can’t even tell. Clarity. You’d kill for some fucking clarity. The question is if Carlos Sainz Junior is the person who can even grant it.

“Because I lo-care, Y/N. And I know you do, too. You could’ve told me to go. Could’ve chosen to stay and ignore me. But you didn’t. And that means something. At least it does to me,” he sounds upset, accent getting thicker as he speaks.

As the car winds down the Monaco roads, creeping closer and closer to your apartment building, it hits you. What if he runs out of road? If there’s nowhere else to go? What happens when time runs out on you to have this conversation? It terrifies you – imagining a future with, or without Carlos. It’s equally frightening, and therein lies the problem, doesn’t it?

“So then why’d you leave? You could’ve stayed. The other day when we – well,” your voice cracks, and you hate it. Hate how vulnerable he makes you feel, even now. Even when you’ve done everything you could to protect and arm yourself. It’s still led you back to this.

One of his hands slips from the steering wheel, reaches out as if driven by instinct, before retreating to a neutral spot on the console instead. He mutters something under his breath, then sighs in resignation.

“Don’t ask me questions you don’t really want to hear the answer to.”

The biting remark almost makes you flinch, but it’s a sudden yet violent wave of nausea that actually does you in. With one hand pressed to your mouth, you desperately reach out to find purchase on Carlos’ arm.

You try to breathe in and out through your nose, suppressing the urge to gag. He pulls over to the side of the road, and within seconds he’s at your side. “It’s okay nena, take a deep breath, there you go.”

It’s probably one of the most embarrassing moments in your life – dry-heaving on the highway, in the middle of the night, with your ex there to witness it all. Consoling you, offering you a bottle of water when inevitably you do throw up the contents of that evening.

“I’m so- fuck, so sorry,” you take another gulp of water, and dab at your mouth with the tissue Carlos hands you next. Refusing eye contact, you slide down to sit on the gravel, leaning against the car.

He sits down next to you, just close enough for your shoulders to brush, but doesn’t say anything.

“I almost threw up in your Golf.”

“It could’ve been my Ferrari,” he tries to lighten the mood, but instead you let out a strangled laugh that turns into a hiccup as the first tear rolls down your cheek.

“Weirdly, I think I wouldn’t feel as bad. Your parents bought you this car – I know you love it the most.” Another tear follows, dropping onto your shirt. “And I almost ruined it. As usual.”

Carlos stiffens next to you. “And now I’m crying. Shit. I’m sorry Carlos, I think I just – I need to go home. Sleep it off.”

You push the palms of your hands into your eyes, hoping to rub away the tears and keep new ones from falling. It doesn’t work, because tan fingers encircle your wrists to pull them away from your face.

He cradles your hands in his lap, then gently dips his head down so there’s nowhere to hide from him. It leaves you feeling incredibly bare.

“You didn’t ruin it. And I don’t love it the most,” there’s nothing but conviction in his eyes when he catches your gaze. Except, when you get sidetracked by the way his eyelashes fan across his cheeks, you see a flicker of something else. Hesitation.

The air feels charged, as if you’re both waiting on the precipice of something. You’re acutely aware of the way his hands tighten briefly around your own, how his shoulder nudges yours, and how his chest rises and falls just slightly quicker than usual.

Desperate to break the tension, and feeling entirely too close to losing it completely, you try and claw back what little control you have over the situation.  

“I don’t think I’ll puke anymore,” you whisper. It should make him recoil, should make him want to back away. But instead, Carlos tries to hide a smile before pressing a brief kiss on your forehead. As he pulls back, his eyes flicker to your lips, and almost on instinct, you tilt your head upward.

He swallows, voice dragging as his tongue darts out to lick his lips. “I – let me get you home.”

You nod, but make no move to get up or disentangle yourself from him. Carlos does it for you, slowly severing the connection as he stands up and pulls away.

The drive home isn’t far anymore, and within fifteen minutes, the car comes to a standstill again. You’ve spent it in silence, taking small sips of water every once in a while as you tried to gather your thoughts. Not that you’ve made much progress on that front. You’re still as confused, wondering exactly why it is that you keep rubbing at your ribs – as if there’s some physical pain you can just magic away.

“We’re here,” Carlos breaks first. He looks over at you, an unspoken question hanging in the air.

You know it’s dumb, that it’s you falling in exactly the same trap as you did ten days ago. But just like that, he’s quietly following you out the car and into the building.

The elevator ride sees you ignore his presence, but you feel the heat emanate from his body as he hovers behind you and presses the button to your floor.

When you unlock the door, Carlos steps inside before you do. “Let me help you,” he offers as explanation. Before you can even realise what he means, he’s bending down, unlacing your shoes and motioning for you to use him for balance as you step out of them.

“You want to shower?” He asks next, and you find yourself nodding dumbfounded.

He toes off his own shoes quickly, hangs your coat in the coatrack and disappears down the hallway. When he returns, holding a towel and your favorite showergel, you follow him into the bathroom. Carlos helps you undress, and it’s soft in a way you can’t quite understand. Can’t fully grasp what’s happening between the two of you now. Why he’s here, why he’s being so kind, why he’s taking care of you – when you’ve done nothing but push him away.

He motions for you to step under the shower, and you’ve never felt more confused when he makes to turn away. So you find yourself asking if he’ll join you.

“Just – could you wash my hair? It’s all knotted.” It’s a flimsy excuse, and you both know it. But he relents, anyways. Gives in, like he always does – like you’d hoped he’d do. His eyes lock on yours as he strips off his clothes, before joining you.

It’s not sexual, but it feels intimate and right for all the wrong reasons, you tell yourself. Carlos’ hands move through your hair, scratching just so at your scalp that you can’t help but moan.

His breath hitches, and when you return the favour, letting your fingers linger at the nape of his neck, it’s as if there’s a coil spring between the two of you, ready to snap.

Once the water’s shut off, and Carlos steps away to grab your towel, you step up right behind him. Even though he turns around in surprise, he doesn’t say anything. Waits for your cue, as he slowly drags the towel down your shoulders and back. A small collection of water drops runs in rivulets down his chest, getting tangled in the chest hair he’s yet to shave off. You flick your gaze up at Carlos’ eyes, molten chocolate staring back at you. The coil snaps. Without breaking eye-contact, you step even closer and can feel his arousal as you move to kiss the water away.

It all goes downhill quick after that.

Thirty minutes later, you’re staring up at the ceiling from where you’re lying side by side on your bed. Your hair’s still damp, sticking to your neck.

Silence descends, uncomfortably stifling the room.

“We shouldn’t have done that. I can’t – this is no good.” His words are like a punch to the gut. Because he sounds broken, and regretful, and yearning all at the same time. And you can’t handle it. Because you know he’s right. This isn’t healthy.

“How did we end up like this?” You ask quietly instead, carefully keeping your gaze fixed on the LEGO flowers that adorn your dresser. You probably should’ve gotten rid of those, too. Thank God your friends don’t know that it was Carlos who got them for you, and who you spent an entire afternoon with arranging LEGO bouquets.

“You ended things,” Carlos unhelpfully reminds you. His tone is unusually sharp, even though you can tell he’s trying not to show it. It hurts to know you brought that out of him, but it’s also exactly why you did it in the first place – end things.

Love shouldn’t hurt, not like this.

So it isn’t love, is what you’ve been telling yourself. It can’t be. Because you won’t allow it. But that doesn’t keep your treacherous heart from wanting it all the same.

“Would you have called, if your sister hadn’t texted?”  Do you miss me?

“You don’t want to hear that, Y/N.”

“Humor me,” you plead.

“Of course. I miss you. I miss you all the time.” It sounds anguished, and strangled as the words leave his mouth. You close your eyes, and take another breath.

Maybe there’s still a sliver of liquid courage swimming through your veins, or maybe it’s the post-orgasmic haze that lets the words slip by your usual defences. But you find yourself unable to stop them from coming out your mouth this time. “Then how is it that you are so competitive on track, but you wouldn’t fight for us? For me?”

You hate how small and vulnerable you sound, or how your threat feels thick all of a sudden. Stupid, stupid girl. Hasn’t he told you? Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.

If Carlos is surprised by your sudden mood change, he doesn’t say. Instead, his fingers curl around your own, squeezing them briefly.

“I don’t want my relationship to be defined by competition. Love should be freely given, no?”

You’re quiet, trying to compute what he’s saying. You’ve never thought of it that way. Before you can object, he continues on. “And I’m here. I’m always here. Even when you don’t want me to. You can push me away, but it won’t change – I cannot change it.”

“Except for when you have to leave,” you whisper unhelpfully. He rolls onto his side and stares at you. It’s hard to make out his expression in the dark when you inevitably cave and turn around as well, focusing on where you know his face to be.

“Just because I have to, doesn’t mean I want to. But I won’t ask you for something you’re not willing to give.”

When you don't answer, he sighs. The bed dips, and while part of you would love nothing more than to latch onto him and keep him close - there's the part of you that's so afraid of what it might mean to do so, that lets him go.

Five minutes later, he's out the door.

It's not until the next morning that you realise his hoodie's gone too.

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Let me know what you think <3 Likes, comments, reblogs, asks are all appreciated. Next chapter will be out next week.

want to be added to the taglist? send me an ask!

[p5-apotelesma]

SPEAKING OF RYUJI ive been thinking of adding his own crashout to the okumura arc at the same time as mona. because drama.

like. i know. i know everybody collectively goes UUHHHHGGGG during this part and i get why. i totally get it. its frustrating cause you just wanna shake the characters and tell them to talk to each other. (and i think a lot of people are frustrated by it because they just Dont like morgana and think hes annoying. none of that here)

not to mention how it overshadowed harus intro arc (which is also why im still debating it) but i feel like this could be remedied by. introducing haru earlier. we meet goro in june and he doesnt join the team til november. no reason we cant set haru up early too.

is this behavior in character for morgana? yeah id say so. could it have been written more smoothly? very yeah. listen i could go on about morgana and why this crashout of his Works with his arc and why characters like him are so squeezy toy to my brain BUT. later. ryuji time

i know ryuji isnt really the kind of kid to hold grudges. every time someone he cares about is angry with him, he thinks its more or less acceptable if they take it out on him. its just all he knows (but its not really okay!) but hes gone through the grueling psychological trauma of an awakening and. the truth of the matter is. kamoshida isnt the only person who he should tell to stop looking down on him

morgana does it all the time. and its rare i hear any objections from the gang other than a “will both of you knock it off” as if ryuji isnt outright being provoked. and yeah you could say this is just how they are. ryuji is a teenager and morgana is like two. communication blunders of the ages. ect.

and i do think this is part of it. some people have friendships full of teasing and ribbing on each other. but they Lead with Nice. you have to like. treat someone with enough kindness to warrant being able to playfully dig at them as a friend and morgana.

hasnt? sure theyre able to rely on each other as team mates but mona is just needlessly a little bitch. a lot.

i think the two do genuinely care about each other. that they can act like friends and they are friends. but. consider. its not enough that morgana has to stop being mean. morgana should have to be nice.

because when mona says “ryuji you idiot” or “you dumb monkey” or “youre pathetic” ryuji does, in fact, Not hear “ryuji i know you can do better” its literally just words hes endured for years at this point. and again!! i dont think mona has treated him nice enough to reach bullying privileges!

morgana has set the tone for pretty much every interaction he has with ryuji and the kid is just meeting him where hes at. which is why ryuji so easily calls morgana useless and thinks nothing of it. i mean (gestures to everything morgana says to him that the gang regards as normal and fine)

and the gang needs to object a lot more loudly to the ryuji slander. but they dont. and i think ryuji should have his own crashout moment because hes sick of morgana dragging him and no one really saying anything. they should have to have this moment where theyre like. aw fuck have we been bad friends? shit

and also realize that. them enabling mona to bully ryuji does not exist in a vacuum. it has consequences. and has in part fostered the dynamic that has ryuji so easily insulting mona. which leads to the cat running off in the first place

[afurtivecake]

there is something to be said about how jean's role-model when it comes to exy is thea. in aftg, a character's position on the team says a lot about the kind of person they are. in jean's case, the person whose playing style he gravitated towards is thea, someone who's known for her forceful, violent and unapologetic style of defense. off the court, jean has no power; he doesn't have the right to defend himself, he doesn't have the right to fight back, even though he wants to badly. he has all this anger and fight in him that he has no choice but to smother. only when he's playing exy does he get to stand his ground and hit back as hard as he can. no one embodies his desire for the chance to fight back more than thea. it isn't just that jean looks up to thea for her skill - he is in awe of her. in her, he sees everything he wants to be that was taken away from him the moment he was sold to the moriyamas: strength, determination, the audacity to not give a fuck. choosing to emulate thea's style is how jean has managed to eek out a little bit of autonomy for himself in one small area of his life that isn't self-harm. it's not much but in those moments when he plays exy, he gets to be the kind of person he wishes he could be in his real life.

[things-arent-what-they-seem66]

Lucifer leaned into the touch, it felt so nice. Not many if any people stand up for him, let alone physically defend him.

Lucifer: You're n-not a prisoner here Adam, you h-have a life.

Adam: I know but, you shouldn't be left alone. Especially when you can't even walk very well.

Lucifer rubbed his leg that was in a cast, looking at it sadly: I s-should have been more careful....

Adam: Hey, accidents happen. This.

He pointed to his leg.

Adam: Is not your fault.

Lucifer teared up, he's never been told that.

Lucifer: T-thank you A-Adam. You didn't hurt yourself d-did you?

Adam smiled, he made sure that Lucifer was comfortable and got comfortable beside him.

Adam: No, I'm okay.

Lucifer took both of Adams hands in his, there was a small bruise forming on the knuckle. Feeling a little bold, he placed a feather light kiss on his knuckles, they were hurt because of him.

Adam flushed, his heart skipped a beat when Lucifer's warm lips touched him. His blue eyes flicked up to look at him and they shined brightly with certainty.

Lucifer: My hero.

Adam smiled: Any time you need me........ So, does that happen a lot?

Lucifer nodded: Yeah...... It hasn't been so bad lately since I've been able to avoid him but..... He used to bang on my doors and windows all hours of the night. H-he got in once.....

That had been a scary night and having him here just now..... Was awful.

Adam had half a mind to beat that fuckers face in some more.

Adam: You're safe now okay? I won't let anyone hurt you. Not while I'm here and I'm not leaving you. But umm..... Just so I'm prepared, where is...... She?

He didn't need to say her name for him to know.

Lucifer: I-I-I don't know, but I have a restraining order against her. I haven't seen her since I served her with divorce papers.

Where she lost her fucking mind and nearly killed him.

Adam pulled Lucifer into a hug: I won't let her hurt you ever again.

Lucifer smiled and cried softly into Adams chest: T-thank you Adam, for everything.

Trapped Heart

@beef-brisket

⚠️This deals with Agoraphobia, anxiety, depression, and mentions of domestic abuse ⚠️

-

Adam: Well that's the last of them.

He looked around his new home and smiled, this place was so much better than his last home and a third of the price too.

They were practically giving it away.

There was his lawn mower that was on the truck still.

Adam went out to put it in the garage when he noticed his neighbor, a short blonde man getting his mail from his box. He was better looking than his last neighbor.

Adam waved: Hey!

Lucifer jumped as he grasped his mail, he looked over and saw a handsome brunette standing in the driveway across the road smiling and waving.

Lucifer: O-Oh, hi!

Adam: Names Adam, I just moved in.

Lucifer: N-nice to meet you! I'm Lucifer, I hope you like it here.

He wanted to be polite and welcome his new neighbor right, but he could already feel the cold tendrils of anxiety start to slowly crawl through his skin trying to wrap around him like a vice grip.

How long has he been outside? His heart started to beat a little hard with each moment he's not back in his home. He could die! He's not safe he needs to get back!

Adam: Yeah me too.

By the looks of it he already likes what he sees.

Lucifer nodded, he could feel the tremors starting in his hands the palms getting sweaty.

He needs to go.

Lucifer: I-It was nice to meet you Adam! B-But I need to get going.

Adam: Oh okay, maybe we can hang out sometime?

Lucifer gave a tight smile: Y-yeah.

He waved again to be polite and tried not to run back to his house, his therapist said it was good for him to be out as long as he could stand it.

Pushing himself a little each day. Today him reached his limit.

Once his front door was closed and locked behind relief washed over him, he's safe now nothing can hurt him. He hugged his mail to his chest, he needed to sit down.

Lucifer went over and placed everything on the coffee table. He tried to remember his breathing exercises.

Adam seemed very nice, maybe he'll send Charlie over when she comes to give him a proper greeting.

-

Adam tilted his head as he watched his new neighbor go into his home, if he didn't know any better he would say the man was panicked. Did he do something? He knows his personality can be a little brash at times but he thought he was being polite.

A man that lived beside him came out for his mail as well.

Adam: Hi! Umm, I'm new here.

Alastor: Oh hello! I'm Alastor, I guess that makes us neighbors.

Adam chuckled: Guess so. Umm, if I may ask, is the man that lives there okay? I didn't intend to upset him.

Alastor looked over at Lucifer's home and rolled his eyes.

Alastor: Getting the mail was he? Don't worry about it that man's afraid of his own shadow. I wouldn't waste my time, he never leaves his house.

Well that sounded a little dramatic.

Adam: What?

Alastor leaned on the fence: Oh yeah, Mr. Morgenstern over there never leaves his house. Rumor has it that his wife used to beat the fuck out of him in the home but it was worse when they were in public. Apparently she'd just humiliate him and others would join in making things worse. He was never free of her but at least in the home he could be alone.

Adam was horrified to hear that: Dude, the fuck, is that true?

Alastor shrugged: Not sure. All I know that is true is she left him nearly 8 years ago and he's become some kind of hermit that never leaves the damn house. His daughter Charlie, sweet girl you'll likely meet her, comes over from time to time.

Adam looked over at Lucifer's house, that couldn't all be true right? Maybe some was and the rest is telephone gossip extras?

Him and Alastor parted ways, he had to put everything away in his house. All the while his mind kept going back to the handsome neighbor across the way.

[nibbelraz]

POV: You are Shen Qingqiu and he is going to get you